Comatose
by Awesomelock
Summary: Insanity was something Sherlock appeared to be good at. Set after TRF.
1. Day 1

EDIT- I changed the summary and name of this. It used to be called roo or something stupid. The old summary was:

2 wrongs make a right. The fall was wrong. This was wrong. 3 lefts also make a right. Ignore me. OOC at first- for a reason. Starts slow.

Also made some other changes.

THIS IS NOT AN OC FICTION. Promise. My sincerest apologies if your name is Owen Whitehall. I hope no one is called that. Sherlock won't actually kill you. And if he does, ha ha! That makes me GOD! And sorry.

Rated T for less than mild swearing and flash back worthy out of character Sherlock. The OOC-ness will haunt you. Also I must warn that: I don't own this, and that _nothing really happens at all. _As far as FF goes, this is pretty pointless. But then, so is everything. This is just particularly cringe worthy :)

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Chapter 1/Day 1:

"I love you." I heard the words, the syllables, echo through my head.

A smile ghosted my face as I walked up the corridor- happy- content- to leave those words in my head- to pretend they are real. To think some truth is in there.

Lies. Those words were lies. Of course I'm not loved. Who would love me? Freak. People lie so often- just talking is lying. I lied to everyone though- I faked my death. Doesn't that make me a liar?

So what if I'm a liar- I don't care.

Who comes up with _emotions_ and _feelings_ anyway? They don't do anything good. Ever. We would all be much better if we never _felt_. Feeling is a weakness. Or whatever my brother said. What was his name again? I tried to forget. Mycroft. (Though crime would go down and with it the remnants of my sanity.)

Fuck.

I didn't used to swear. They say things improve with time?

I didn't knock either- as I reached my destination- a room at the end of a corridor. That would be quite unproductive. You know, as the singular room occupant was in some sort of vegative state. Who says the sky in infinite? I wouldn't know. I just happen to know it is very much finite. Like pi.

The room smelt like hospital smell. Does that make sense to other people? Screw you- I know it makes sense. I shut the door behind me. That room was bright. Why do you need lights in a room that only ever has a sleeping person in it?

I _could _deduct everything about them. From the shoes they wore to the money they had. The family they belonged to- their name. Their heritage- their _gender._ But I didn't. When I entered the room, I was blind. I was in a deduction free sanctuary. Away from the busy clock work of thinking. This was a different type of thinking.

I sighed as I leant back on the door. I sighed a lot. Sigh. A habit I picked up- to make myself seem like someone else. Because if I was Sherlock then I'd be dead- it would eat away from me. From my mind. I needed my mind, even if I didn't need my identity.

I shut my eyes, as if to give myself a new start. But new starts only succeed to _piss_ me off. If you've lived all your life only to start again… Just, why? It's like dying on a game. You're not happy then, are you? And that game didn't take years of never ending game play to get to.

I'm _dead. _I _died._ I ended my game. I _started _again. And I keep starting again. It's not like a car- they simply turn off. It's like a super nova. A big deal over something so distant, so far away- it doesn't actually effect you.

"Hey." I said. Truth be told- I didn't know the name of the person in the coma. And I didn't wish to find out. I carefully avoided all writing in the room. Even the crude scribbles on bits of paper. It wasn't too difficult, everything was in Spanish.

Why you ask? Because it was a Spanish hospital in Spain. And I was an English person in Spain visiting someone I didn't know and talking to them in a foreign language (foreign to them.)

I'd been in Spain for a while. I'd visited that hospital a lot. It was a central location- everywhere I visited literally revolved around it. I was taking down Moriarty's men one by one. Man my man. Woman by Woman.

"We're in the same boat. I don't know you, you don't know me. Are you a genius? Like me?" I stopped. Thanks for always being there for me? But that was too cliché so I settled for something a bit more… striking? "I can tell you everything from the stain you got on your shirt at the station. For a Spanish vegetable, you're pretty good to talk to."

That put things into perspective. Who I was talking to.

Had I been anyone else I would have laughed nervously. "Most people don't _deduct _like I do- but they still _deduct _and _deduce _and _observe._ It's a common misconception that you can just turn it off. But people told me I should so now I can." Had I been anyone else I would have laughed morbidly. "And _observations _include gender. So I see you. I look at you. I don't see anything. I know some things. You think I'm crazy."

"Well, I am." The person hadn't moved a muscle (well, that's not true. The heart is a muscle,) for what I should assume is a while because I came across them a while ago. I should imagine they were gulping. I wondered to myself if that was their death bed- if that's where they were going to die. If they would lay there not being visited for years before the hospital staff flip the switch and they finally kick the bucket. Pop there clogs-

So to speak.

"Listen. I know, well, I don't, you probably don't understand me," I missed out how they couldn't hear me, because I myself was wallowing in the lie, "But thanks. That's what Moriarty said on the roof top- he said thanks. Then he blew his brains out." I said as I moved away from the door and stalked over to my usual chair next to the hospital seat.

"Actually, never mind. I'll tell you that later." I shut my eyes and leant back. "I beat someone up today, who wasn't on the list. Yeah, I know, free will and all that crap- but that's the _ideal_ world. But if I was found I'd probably be dipped in acid and have to walk around for the rest of my life with skin dripping off me." I looked at the ceiling. John wouldn't like that.

Ingeniously.

The small talk would, under any other circumstances, have been hateful, but it wasn't. It was just right.

"I hope you can't hear me. I…" I trailed off. I hope you don't wake up, I wanted to say. "I'll be back tomorrow, unless I've been dipped in acid. Don't- don't go anywhere- alright?"

I left the sterile room, shutting the door behind me. I leant back onto it; checking around to see if anyone was there. To see if anyone could have heard.

Right.

I needed to kill someone. Owen Whitehall.

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A/N- There are reasons- yes, reasons, I made Sherlock like that. Insanity. On my behalf as well as his. But also, I think somewhere like Spain, or somewhere other than London and England, Sherlock would go crazy if he saw all those different people in different locations, I think he'd just go crazy. So if he turns his mind off, it would stop implosion. Like walking. By the end of it, you have to sit down, get some relief, than walk again. I get what I mean.

Also, he swears because I think he'd get involved with people who swear. I mean, it's inevitable. Everyone swears. Some more than others.

Oh yeah, and I wrote this on request. Can't remember the exact request. It was from a real life friend. Yes. I have real life friends.

Excuse the bold:

**I know Sherlock is out of character. That's the point of this: Sherlock losses his personality/ identity so he remains anonymous, but it seeps back out slowly. Basically, by the end, HE'LL BE AS NOT OOC AS I CAN MAKE HIM. **


	2. Day 2

_Chapter 2/Day 2_

"I think I'm in danger." I paused, as if waiting for a reply from the person in front of me. "You're not."

I didn't say anything for a while- letting my words sink in. Why did I go there? Everyday? Maybe it was because I didn't want to admit to myself I was going crazy. But who else could I speak to? Everyday. It was to turn off- I knew it. But I didn't want to accept it.

Days. Who created days? Always a beginning and an end. No one likes the end of anything. The bread, movies, parties, cows, nothing. No one likes it. Ever. No exception except the end of a school day when you're 14.

Even then you'd rather not have had a beginning in the first place.

"I'll have to leave soon."

Again, I didn't speak again for a while, letting the words settle. Like carbon particulates- soot settling on the room, thick, dusty, dirty clouds of black dust polluting the room. A contrast to the white walls and white bed spread and white floor and white ceiling a white sink and white-

"Dead. I might be dead before I leave." I slumped more in my chair. "Not that I imagine you'd miss me much- you might even enjoy my end." Irony. It was irony I decided as I read the writing scrawled lazily on the paper work next the sink. It was Spanish. I couldn't read it- and for that reason, I can't remember what it said. That, and I wasn't actually reading it. Just looking at the mess of swirls inked onto the pastel yellow page.

"I might be dead- you might be dead- tomorrow." I laughed. "It's hard to imagine you as dead." A cloud blocked the sun and suddenly everything went very dark. "It would be an interesting case. I never knew you, and you're hardly alive now. I mean- a machine is living for you. Me? I can easily picture myself as dead: pasty skin, cloudy eyes, fishy smell, cold hands..." Worms coming out my eye sockets.

I'd like a plant to grow out of me when I die. So when a little kid comes to uproot the plant they find my decaying corpse. A legacy none can compete with. Though the plant would probably have pale leaves and a floppy, yellow, lanky stalk. It would be water logged with green mould. Any flowers would be rotten. Though it would make for an interesting case when Anderson says he doesn't know how it happened. I like it when Anderson can't do his job because he's incompetent.

It makes my hate for him that bit sharper.

"I don't mind dying." I whispered after a while. "Well, that's a lie. I'd love being dead, but I'd hate dying. I nearly died, once. Not that long ago." A memory flooded my mind; People.

There were lots of people. _Grey. The streets were grey. I wasn't dead- far from it. I was suicidal, though not really. A fake fake. One of those people who told people how the person lying at the end of the drive met their end. I told grieving familys that their loved ones had died a slow. And. Painful. Death._

"_Good bye John." Followed by a rather fast countdown:_

_1. 2. 3._

_I jumped, or stepped, gravity took its course and I was sent hurtling towards the solid concrete below._

_Of course- It was faked._

And of course, it feels real. The flashbacks where I actually hit the ground.

"I wish I actually died sometimes. I think you of all people can understand how dull life can become. Without drugs. Are you on drugs at the moment? Comatose drugs?" I spoke to the body in front of me. I never really referred to them as any particular name, not a body nor vegetable nor member of the Doe family. They were just a thought with no label. I liked it that way. "I'm not suicidal or anything, in fact, if I was suicidal, I wouldn't be having this problem of committing suicide and now having to keep low."

I heard footsteps walk past the door and stayed silent for a good while. I never really knew what would happen if they caught me.

"It's funny. Ironic, which in itself, is ironic, that I now am what the person who tried to kill me was that was killing them. I know that makes no sense. A druggy. Moriarty, not on drugs, naturally high, it was killing him being high. Therefore him being a druggy (but not really), was killing him because of how bored he got, so he killed me and now look at me. High as St. Barts." I paused. I wanted to change the subject now. Easy enough considering the conversation was one sided. "I kill people. I killed a man last night."

The lighting flickered.

"What does that make me?"

Sometimes I was sure they would respond, but they never did. Even if they could, I doubt they would. Sometimes that's the best form of reply. Silence. Silence brews words, emotions, shit. It wastes time, it makes time. "I have to get some money." Caring is not an advantage. That was what he said. Mycroft, that is. Caring is not an advantage. So true.

I couldn't make sense of what I had become- a false attachment. I pretended to care. The best of both worlds. It was then that I wished I was plain old Mycroft. The British Government who's diet wasn't working.

10 minutes of silence then blanketed the room. Protecting us from the words.

"I'll be back tomorrow."

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A/N- Something will happen soon- to speed things along. I hope you're not too bored. Why not bathe your selves in unnecessary metaphors I've added. To keep your selves going. **Soon Sherlock will be Sherlock!** And I love Sherlock being Sherlock. Don't get your hopes up too much though- I may feel he's in character when he's not. Though right now, he's not. I'm working on chapter lenth.


	3. Day 3 and 4

_Day 3 and 4 Chapter 3_

"I didn't tell you." I pronounced as I walked into the room. "John Hamish Watson."

I collapsed back onto the chair- letting the roar of traffic ring out. I didn't have the energy to finish my sentence. "I left him in England. I left Molly and Mrs Hudson and Mycroft and Lestrade. Stupid. How could I forget them?"

A high buzzing noise bouncing off the walls- the sound of amplified silence. "I tell you this, because something's wrong here. Very wrong-" My voice broke. I stopped mid-sentence.

How could I finish something like this?

"I never wanted to know you. I wanted to speak to you, because that's what people do. I do what people do nowadays." I paused. "And I never wanted to know your name." The silence this time wasn't comforting. It was depressing. The atmosphere stilled. Dust caught the light as it floated in front of my face, like shards of glass, falling. Drifting downwards.

Acid glass- it has this edge. Acid rain. Harmful. Destroys crops. If acid rain destroys crops then the dust destroys my brain? It makes no sense. No sense has been made. "I had one person."

Rain began to flick onto the window. The sun hidden away behind clouds still found its way through the window. What's that? Hope can be found even when it's lost? The metaphors were contradicting. I laughed silently at the thought.

"I don't know if you understand- you either do, or you don't. But if you do… If you do I'm sorry." I heard a bed role past my room, hospital staff helping push it. "I try not to get into ethics where I can help it. I _hurt _people. It's what I do. I'm a monster. This is a bad person. If you hadn't heard the story from my point of view, I'd be a bad person." I tapped my feet on the floor nervously.

"I am anyway. And I don't know how. But I got attached. It snow balled down. Was it in my control? No. And I blamed for it. And I know it was my fault…" The noise of the hospital rattled at the back of my ears. I paused. Listened to it. "But it feels wrong. It feels like I shouldn't be blamed- but I'm just the typical bad guy."

More silence;

"The disposable. Replaceable. I don't matter. To anyone. I'm not a consulting detective. I'm not even a consulting criminal. I'm a common garden criminal." I stayed for 20 more minutes. "I'll be back tomorrow."

The word 'hopefully' was conveniently forgotten.

_Day 4_

"I'm a criminal." They hadn't moved since yesterday. Not surprising when you think about it. I'd checked the time tables made sure when _they _were here, I was not. _They _were the hospital staff. "I've killed people, I've stolen things. I've beaten people up."

A bird flew into the window. It broke its neck.

It died.

"That was a bird- did you hear it? Do you like birds? I don't." The conversation was awkward at best. Like telling your parents you killed a man. "Have you taken drugs? Illegal drugs? Weed. I like weed. Drug abuse- I like morphine."

"I have to kill you."

The room rattled.

"Depression made the drugs which made the friends which made the enemies which made the criminal a murderer." That was a mouthful. I stood up, my chair scraped along the ground making a horrible squealing noise in protest. Like nails on a chalk board. "I have to kill you- because you're on the list. And you know everything." I faced away from them, knowing that when I looked back- I would see them. I would see their shoes, their name, their family, their favourite food and more importantly: Their life story.

"I have to be more careful. Don't I? Owen?" I turned back around.

Family man. Dog, wife, picket fence. He got involved with the wrong people. He _learnt _to be one of Moriarty's people. The coma was medical induced. He'd be awake tomorrow. "I have to kill you now." I placed my hand on the syringe in my pocket. By the time they were dead 'Mr L. M. Jones' would have disappeared off the face of the Earth. He was second to last.

"I might not make it- to heaven, meet you again. And if I don't-" I injected it into them, a place where no one would notice until Owen had grown cold. "Well, if I don't, good bye. And I do hope, now, that you heard me."

As I shut the unforgiving, heavy door behind me- made a mental note:

One more to go- Sebastian Moran.

London.

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A/N- The consequences of this chapter will be more obvious in the next chapter, AND SHERLOCK WILL BE SHERLOCK AGAIN!

Should I put a John/ Sherlock hurt/comfort scene? Should it be slash?

Also, I forgot this in the first chapter, spoilers for Reichenbach~ Next chapter will be extra long to make up for short chapter lengths. They'd be longer, but not much would happen and this OOC poorly written story would lose even more respect points.

Oh yeah, and a warning for drug references. Oops.


	4. Day 5 and Day minus 7

A/N- I do believe I've put this chapter into to remove any deepness or unintentional yet beautiful metaphors accidently built in. This hopefully removes an air of mystery I've built up. I am rather distracted by the pigeons making sweet, sweet love on the roof over there…

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_Day 5_

"Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome aboard a _Ryanair _flight." Came the pre-recorded voice. I didn't pay any attention as the speech continued, the safety talk with the crew members putting on safety equipment and demonstrating the use of emergency oxygen supplies.

It slowly morphed into a J20 advert- followed by people coming along far too slowly offering stale cups of tasteless, watery coffee. The fat man next to me surprisingly declined any refreshments- a hard decision for him, I'm sure. He was suffering the effects of an unsuccessful diet it appeared, as he pulled a _Krispy Kreme _donut from his bag and began to scoff the thing whole.

Middle age- probably away on a business trip, unsuccessful from the way he threw on his un-matching outfit haphazardly. He'd been staying on the coast, judging by the sand on his shoes and in his thinning hair that he so desperately was trying to preserve. Too laid back when it came to time management- that was the reason he was late onto the plane and ended up next to me.

He'd been out drinking the night before- probably to wash down the fear of his impending firing, he did have to support a wife, 2 children and his elderly dog, named Spot.

Here's for no imagination. The odd colours of Spanish fields and water preserves soon turned to mountains, to France, and then to the morning dew covering the green lush fields of England. Yellow fields of rapeseed to put the nitrogen back into the soil- a romantic gesture as it was.

"…Please turn off all electronic devices for the remaining duration of the flight..." I heard as we began our decent. Hopefully in London something less tedious then killing a coma patient will arise.

The person in front of me was coming home for her daughter's funeral. Died from an illness, probably cancer. Her Mum didn't really care all too much- why else would she not have been there for the rest of her life? Why did she leave in the first place? Because she didn't care. No- she had the money and she ran away at her first chance from her husband to live the dream life in Spain with a dodgy looking man she picked up at a bar. Things aren't going too well, by the way. She was showing up for purely sociable reasons.

And the crew member was dating a maths teacher who is cheating on her with a Mrs from the Humanities department. Life goes on. We touched down shortly after- my mind had been running for the entirety of the trip, (Like always,) and I was just about sick of knowing the people on board the flight.

Yes Grandma, your small talk is brilliant, the occasional, "Wasn't the Sea lovely?" Just makes things more awkward. Thank you, Grandma. At least Mrs Hudson knows when to shut up. If Mycroft tells her. Their names felt weird in my mind. I had deleted them, or moved them into another folder- I'm not sure. If I'd deleted them I wouldn't be remembering so it was the latter. I had ruled everything else out.

Stepping onto the flimsy metal ladder made me wish I'd worn more clothing. But I didn't let it show as I brought out my hibernating scarf and wrapped it round my unshaven neck- I needed my coat. Molly had it- I was wearing it when I jumped, then Molly had to keep it- I couldn't take it with me. I felt the effects of not having it when I arrived in Florence as the February weather took effect. It would soon be summer, I told myself at the time. Not that I didn't have a coat.

And I travelled from there. Tibet, Lhassa, Mecca, France, Spain. _Spain_- I came across _the_ room by accident.

_Day minus 7_

_George. George M. That was all I had to go on. And he was in this hospital. I'd been here before- when I had to confirm a body in the morgue. Now, George M. Where was he? I needed to double check he was here and actually in intensive care- because if he was, that means that the person I couldn't kill in France really was dead, and that I only had 2 people left to go. If he wasn't here, then I had 9 people to kill and another trip to France. _

_Long story. I had his room number. The door was cold, a small window with black squares allowed me to see in. No one was around. I opened the door quietly- silently. The white had gone a dingy grey- the double doors had scuff marks where beds had been wheeled in and out for years. _

_Beep, beep, beep, beep-_

_I tiptoed over to the bed. I looked at the man. He suited the name 'George', if it was him. I didn't know. All I had was his name- and looking around, I couldn't see the name. Damn. I began to shuffle through bits of paper left for nurses. Abandoned next to the sink. Or whatever it was- some sort of pipe. His name was missing from the paper- perhaps they didn't know his name?_

_John, John Doe._

_I knew a John. Once. He had a gun. _

_This 'John' didn't have a name. Well, he had two. But still had no name. Why couldn't they label him? Put some research in- they have a random man lying in intensive care and they just accept that? Hateful._

_No. I am not Sherlock. Nor am I Sigerson or any other alias I've created thus far. I am L.M Jones. And I have the personality of L. M. Jones. I have his identity. I will not act, think, behave or mention anyone from before. Jones. Hateful is not on my vocabulary list. I'm an ordinary delivery man from Bedford._

_The double door I had entered opened- a gust of cold air came sweeping in. It was to be expected, frequent visits from hospital staff- nurses or doctors or anyone else who had any business, (or no business, like me.) I had planned for this. Right. _

_They instantly noticed me- their beady, judging black eyes looking up and down at me before speaking a fast ten seconds worth of words. Their voice was croaky and old- past its best. I starred at them. _

"_Can you tell me where my Lucas is?" I tried to sound like a desperate and worried father looking for his son but to no avail. My voice cracked, I sounded like I had been crying. Well done, me. Well done._

"_Pardon?" They asked in a heavily accented voice._

"_Can you tell me where Lucas is?" I asked slower, like someone would if they were speaking to someone who barely knew any English. I was surprised she knew any- though I suppose a hospital near a popular tourist destination would be swarming with English people. She looked at me blankly, her greasy dark hair pulled back into a tight pony tail catching the light. _

"_George." She pointed at the man in the bed. "I get my friend." She said as she gestured for me to follow her. Good thing it was George then. They could have made it more obvious to passing serial killers. The walk would give me opportunity to escape. Couldn't have her realize why I was really there. She led me along a snaking corridor past a waiting room of people- dull faces staring blankly forwards as they held hands with their partners. The occasional person had managed to make it a family day out._

_She walked up to a reception desk made of aging wood and told me 'wait'. I assumed that meant I had time to escape. I went back the way I came, knowing I would have to revisit George- sentimental purposes only. After a while I heard 2 pairs of footsteps echoing behind me- tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap-_

_I dodged into a little room- the lights were blindingly bright. Soon the footsteps continued on past. Maybe it was the nurse and her 'friend,' (who I assumed was just someone who could speak better English- which wasn't what I was looking for,) or maybe it was 2 people entirely different. _

_Either way I relaxed, deciding my brain needed a rest- I hadn't done that well back there- and even my brilliant mind needs a rest every now and then. That used to be after a case, when I collapsed back onto the sofa and- No. Don't think about it. I collapsed back onto a chair next to the bed. It would have to do._

_After a few minutes of silence I spoke. "Hey." Why not?_

_Nothing. No response. I knew there wouldn't be- but I wasn't thinking. 'Even if they don't reply, say it anyway.'_

"_I just walked in here, and I don't know you." It was a bit awkward._

"_You don't know me. And by the time you think you do, you won't." Suddenly it didn't seem too awkward or too weird to be talking to what was essentially, nothing. They couldn't hear. Unless they could. I didn't want to know. "I've- you… I'd…" I stopped. There was nothing to say. Silence drew out- my sigh ringing in contrast. "How much did you lose to get to where you are now? You know, to get into a coma?"_

_No reply came._

"_I lost everything." I said as I stretched my legs out. I laughed a bit, almost. It depends how you look at it. "I kill people. I mean, that's not why I lost everything. I lost everything because someone killed themselves, which gave me opportunity to kill other people." I nearly found myself wondering what they were thinking right now- if they were thinking, and even, slightly morbidly, if they would ever think again._

_I reminded myself of Molly. Constantly speaking the wrong thing at the wrong time. Sometimes she had good points, but most of the time?_

"_I have to kill more people though." That would lighten the mood, I had decided. "I don't have a choice now. Not unless I want-" I stopped. Not unless I wanted John to die, or Mrs Hudson, or Lestrade or probably even myself. "Things can be quite unfair, sometimes. Most of the time."_

_A saw a dead moth on the window sill. "I suppose you'd know that- lying where you are. Have you ever been face to face with a criminal, knowing you've won- yet having to kill yourself? Where's the victory in that?" I stood, walking to the window sill and picking up the dead moth, studying its pale form. Lifeless. "There's no victory in losing everything." I said as I dropped the moth into a bin. "Neither of us won."_

_By that point, I was talking to neither myself nor whoever it was who lay in the hospital bed. "I'm sorry. I might be back again, one day, it depends how long you're here. It depends how long I'm here." I said as I shuffled along the grey floor._

_One week later I was still visiting. Kept barely sane on my hunt for the last person before I go home by the memory of my loved one:_

"_I love you."_

_I knew it was a lie, but it kept me going._

_Day 5_

Once in London Luton airport I caught a rather expensive Taxi ride to London, stopping short of my real destination. 3 years of necessary paranoia dies hard.

I was cold and possibly psychopathic, as it is now, compared to my previous sociopathic tendencies, I was myself again. Killing someone you know just because they knew someone who played a 'game' with you has its way of twisting you. And being twisty makes me Sherlock- so what had I really lost?

Only I, Sherlock Holmes, could have played Moriarty's game and won, twice, by losing, twice.

(And killing many people.)

* * *

A/N- I hate this chapter and the ending even more. Nothing I write seems right. WHY DOES EVERY WORD IN THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE HATE ME? It all just seems pretty anticlimatic...

If you want this continued- I'll continue it. If not- I won't. I'll probably continue it in another Fanfic though.

Or maybe I won't? Say what you think. Or don't. But please do.

Also, thank you to Maddi Paige for reviewing :D


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